A holiday in the crucible

There's a competition in Tots 100 to win a holiday, and I'll definitely be entering. You have to write a blog post, 500 words max, about The Best Holiday of My Life. I will write that post, another time, but interestingly, when I first started thinking about it, the holiday that sprang to mind was the week that we took in Colorado, after my cancer diagnosis and mastectomy, and before chemotherapy. I started browsing the photos, and yes, in many ways, it was the best of all my holidays.

For a start, it arose out of the sincere generosity of strangers. A friend of a friend let us use their holiday cabin. It was July, and we had hot weather, but Colorado altitude hot is not the same, let me tell you, as Great Plains hot. It's a dry, friendly, enjoyable heat, not a stagnant, muggy, draining heat. To be away from home, to take a break from the relentless series of tests, appointments, waiting for results, decisions, in the beauty of the mountains, was, metaphorically and literally, a breath of fresh air.

To be honest, I don't remember much detail of what we did. I could guess, because we've been back to the same place three times since, and we now have our favourite spots and activities. They've become traditions. But what I remember from that week, and what I see when I browse the photos, is a moment when we were almost suspended in time. It was a week of peace and calm in the midst of a great storm. I suppose much of that was probably denial of some kind, or hiding, or whatever you want to call that particular coping mechanism. But it was more than that. Looking back, I see how we were in the crucible of life, and yet able to enjoy each other, and have fun, and treasure the days (but not treasure them too much, for fear of thereby investing them with a dangerous significance).

We took a lot of photos that week. There are lots of beautiful nature shots, of woodland, waterfalls, views. There are photos of the children. I made sure I was in a lot of them, because... can't quite bring myself to write why. Just because.

Here's one I love. Out for a walk. The small boy waggling a stick, the mum carrying the water bottle, the little blond girl bringing up the rear. It could be any family. But it's not. It's us.



There was one afternoon when I was on the sofa with the camera, and from where I sat, I photographed the whole family. I have my rules about not showing my children on my blog, but I'm going to stretch those rules a little here.

Here is younger son, 8 at the time, with his friends, the Bionicles.




Here is oldest, just turned 12, not usually much of a reader, but immersed that afternoon in Harry Potter.

Here is youngest, 5 years old, at the table. That's apple juice in the glass, just so you know. Don't you love the way their feet dangle at that age?


And here is Husband, busy in the kitchen area. When I was diagnosed, he read as much as he could on diet, and how you can give yourself an advantage over cancer with what you eat. He took over cooking and shopping, and here he is in action. We still take the trouble to include a lot of anti-inflammatory foods in our diet, and we use the juicer (remember the juicer?) to imbibe quantities of fruit and vegetable juice (though Husband has never repeated one legendary juice from that summer, which he concocted from cabbage, onions and garlic).



It all looks so peaceful and idyllic, and honestly, it was just like that. Perhaps the children needed their own time and space, that week, to process what was going on in their tender lives. Certainly in these pictures they seem reflective. They look so young and vulnerable. I remember sitting there, watching them, managing surreptitiously to raise the camera without them noticing.

Well, we made it through. We are no longer in the crucible, and I'm glad for that. I'm going to end this post with a photo taken in the same place, but four months later, in November, when I'd finished chemotherapy. I look dreadful - gaunt, strained, tired... bald of course. The cabin has a wonderful deck with a lovely view, and even in November, it's a sun trap. Here I am, sitting on that deck, ubiquitous cup of tea to hand, and the reason I'm showing you this photo is to remind us all of what helped me bump along through that time. See what I'm doing? Yes... I'm writing.



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